I tried acupuncture for the first time a few days ago. Not for any critical ailment, other than the usual shoulder and backaches that come along with reading all day for a living . . . just for general well-being and out of curiosity.
As a huge fan of massage, I'm familiar with the concept of pressure points and how various seemingly unconnected parts of the body (like your feet and belly) can have a deep impact on each other. But I didn't know that traditional Chinese medicine says you can feel the pulse of your liver, stomach, spleen, and both kidneys in your wrists—plus your heart, of course. Pretty cool. I also learned that acupuncture is intended to address a wider range of health issues than I imagined, like skin, digestion, and circulation problems.
Because I had no specific expectation of how it would feel or how it might affect different aspects of my health, it was easy to go into the session with an open mind. Amber, the practitioner who treated me, is a friendly and warm woman around my age. We'd met a few times through a mutual friend, and she seemed passionate but relaxed about her work. I've been meaning to give acupuncture a try for a while, since several friends swear by it, and I'm generally interested in alternative healing methods. Don't get me wrong, I love antibiotics and the painkiller aisle at Walgreens, but homeopathy and herbal remedies often serve me well instead.
It's hard to describe how it feels to have miniature needles stuck into strategic locations all over you for about 25 minutes. I expect it varies for everyone. In my case, it just felt neat. My body's reactions to it were palpable and really interesting to track.
For this first session, Amber gave me a balancing treatment, with needles in my right ear and both wrists, ankles, and calves. I couldn't feel the needles themselves—they're tiny and caused no pain—but I could feel my blood moving around in all kinds of brisk and unusual ways.
My muscles also responded by tensing and relaxing at different moments. My ears felt warm, and my feet got cold (Amber wisely pointed a heat lamp at them before the session). Toward the end, I fell asleep for a few minutes and had an intense dream. All I remember is that I was rushing toward something in my car, and I woke up with a start.
I didn't expect to feel like a whole new person afterward—any course of physical treatment takes time to show results—but I felt enough of something to decide that acupuncture is worth trying out. I'll let you know if the effects change over time.
July 29, 2006
July 16, 2006
The mortals wear asics
I saw The Devil Wears Prada last night. The whole fashion scene tends to gross me out, but this movie made me covet handbags and strappy heels.
Although I've never been able to wrap my head around the idea that anyone can justify spending $1,000 or more on a single designer accessory or shirt or whatever. I mean . . . a thousand dollars? Think of where you could travel with that money. Or how many meals it would buy. Or used cars. It's wild. Plus, if I actually owned something that expensive, I'd be completely paranoid about wearing it. But I guess it's no big deal if you do it all the time.
Different universe, man. I spent $90 on my biannual pair of running shoes (not on sale, gasp!) this afternoon and felt very decadent. Like buying my feet a daily Swedish massage.
Then I took a good long run in the old pair by way of farewell. If rank smelliness is an indicator of gratitude, they obviously appreciated the gesture.
Although I've never been able to wrap my head around the idea that anyone can justify spending $1,000 or more on a single designer accessory or shirt or whatever. I mean . . . a thousand dollars? Think of where you could travel with that money. Or how many meals it would buy. Or used cars. It's wild. Plus, if I actually owned something that expensive, I'd be completely paranoid about wearing it. But I guess it's no big deal if you do it all the time.
Different universe, man. I spent $90 on my biannual pair of running shoes (not on sale, gasp!) this afternoon and felt very decadent. Like buying my feet a daily Swedish massage.
Then I took a good long run in the old pair by way of farewell. If rank smelliness is an indicator of gratitude, they obviously appreciated the gesture.
July 04, 2006
Tonight's discovery
They also took a 3/4 full bottle of Bombay Sapphire. At least they have good taste, I guess.
But I don't know whether to list the gin and the gum on my insurance claim. I suspect I'd feel a little silly.
But I don't know whether to list the gin and the gum on my insurance claim. I suspect I'd feel a little silly.
July 03, 2006
4 out of 5 criminals prefer Trident
Funny postscript to yesterday's entry:
I went to get some gum from my stash in the cabinet this morning, and discovered that's the one thing last week's visitors deemed worthy of lifting from my kitchen. Five new packs of Trident.
It is the best gum ever, but still. Probably not going for much above retail value on the black market these days.
I went to get some gum from my stash in the cabinet this morning, and discovered that's the one thing last week's visitors deemed worthy of lifting from my kitchen. Five new packs of Trident.
It is the best gum ever, but still. Probably not going for much above retail value on the black market these days.
Space invaders
Hollywood has the first part down: You can sense right away that something is off.
The front door was unlocked, and the second I turned the handle, I felt weird. Even beyond knowing that I always lock the door. It opens into my living room, which looked perfectly normal—except for the air mattress case leaning up against the couch. Racked my brain to think of a reason why. My brother and a couple of friends have keys to the apartment. Did one of them stop by? They live in Seattle and on the East Coast, respectively.
"Hello? Anybody here?" No answer.
Looked left and saw towels and sheets from my downstairs closet strewn on the stairs. Okay. Now I know. I've been robbed. Stepped into the living room—my stereo is still there. My DVD player. All my CDs. The little photo cabinet under my plant has a drawer open, and sitting on top of it is an old camera case with a cheap plastic drugstore 35mm still inside.
Glanced in the kitchen—the cabinet above the stove is open, but nothing is missing. Random check of the other cabinets. No disturbance. The beautiful dark blue serving plate is in its usual stand next to the wine racks; the delicate glass vase D&D brought me from Malta sits untouched on the shelf.
Was there just a really strong gust of wind that knocked a few things out of place? Did somebody break in, look around, and not take anything? A bizarre moment of feeling vaguely insulted. Come on . . . I have some pretty nice stuff.
Up the stairs. Turned the corner, still carrying my dry cleaning and work bag. I don't remember dropping them on the floor, or dropping my keys behind a bookcase somehow, but I did. OH. My. God.
My bedroom is trashed. Entirely trashed. It's hard to explain how it looks. Like a tornado went through, I guess. Or a hyperactive kid with a sweet tooth and a short temper, searching for the hidden cookie you promised. My laptop is gone, of course, torn from its tangle of wires and connectors. So's the mouse, but not the keyboard or hard drive. Too bulky?
There are papers and clothes spilling off the desk and out of the closet, thickly carpeting the floor next to the bed. The bottom rows of both tall white bookcases are partially overturned, Winterson mixing with Tanizaki, and some of my cheap paperbacks have been flung off the small bookcase, newsprint pages slipping out of their covers. Les Misérables, Hocus Pocus, The Oath.
The bed is covered with empty jewelry boxes, brushes and combs, my camera case. But there's my camera! Another moment of mystification: Why leave the nice Pentax, the two extra rolls of black-and-white film? The cop tells me later that's perfectly normal. "They're just taking computers and jewelry these days," she says. "High-end electronics. If you had a flat-screen TV, they mighta taken that." Yet another reason to feel justified for not going digital yet.
Taking the mess in with your eyes is one thing, into your head another. I just keep imagining who the person was, what he was thinking. The ladder he used to climb in my upstairs window was left askew in the yard. Turns out it doesn't even belong to my landlady. The cop said the thief (or thieves) spent 10 minutes or so in the house, a long time by burglary standards.
The next day, the fingerprinting cop tells me about a guy whose life savings were stolen. $20,000 in cash. A Mexican immigrant with no bank account, so despondent about his loss that his young son was the only one who spoke with the police when they came. The father sat in the corner and wept. Then she tells me about a burglar who broke into a couple of apartments, drank a bottle of Manischewitz and a bottle of 150-proof rum, then threw up in two different rooms.
It's the first time I feel lucky; I'll feel that way many times over the next several days. The initial shock is bad, but it fades slowly overnight. I can't start cleaning up before the police take their report, so I go visit some friends. We drink a bottle of wine and joke about how their place and mine look the same now—they're in a packing frenzy, moving cross-country two days later. Another friend comes by later, waiting up with me patiently until the police finally arrive at 12:30 a.m.
I take the next day off to clean up. It's exhausting but suprisingly quick, methodical refolding and reordering, reminding me how much I still have left and how everything has its place in this comfortable me-sized nest. Looking at the empty boxes and remembering when Grandma gave me those earrings . . . which great-aunt found that ring in her antiques shop in Derbyshire . . . what year it was when I shamlessly annexed that great red necklace from Mom.
Here's what they didn't take:
1. My books
2. My albums
3. My photographs
4. My clothes
5. My journals
6. My (first ever) new set of dishes
7. My camera
8. My camping gear
9. My art
10. My optimism
I love California. I love my neighborhood. I put a new lock on the front door for peace of mind. Switched my bank account. Put a fraud alert on my credit.
As soon as I'm done filling out the insurance paperwork, I'll be getting back to business as usual.
The front door was unlocked, and the second I turned the handle, I felt weird. Even beyond knowing that I always lock the door. It opens into my living room, which looked perfectly normal—except for the air mattress case leaning up against the couch. Racked my brain to think of a reason why. My brother and a couple of friends have keys to the apartment. Did one of them stop by? They live in Seattle and on the East Coast, respectively.
"Hello? Anybody here?" No answer.
Looked left and saw towels and sheets from my downstairs closet strewn on the stairs. Okay. Now I know. I've been robbed. Stepped into the living room—my stereo is still there. My DVD player. All my CDs. The little photo cabinet under my plant has a drawer open, and sitting on top of it is an old camera case with a cheap plastic drugstore 35mm still inside.
Glanced in the kitchen—the cabinet above the stove is open, but nothing is missing. Random check of the other cabinets. No disturbance. The beautiful dark blue serving plate is in its usual stand next to the wine racks; the delicate glass vase D&D brought me from Malta sits untouched on the shelf.
Was there just a really strong gust of wind that knocked a few things out of place? Did somebody break in, look around, and not take anything? A bizarre moment of feeling vaguely insulted. Come on . . . I have some pretty nice stuff.
Up the stairs. Turned the corner, still carrying my dry cleaning and work bag. I don't remember dropping them on the floor, or dropping my keys behind a bookcase somehow, but I did. OH. My. God.
My bedroom is trashed. Entirely trashed. It's hard to explain how it looks. Like a tornado went through, I guess. Or a hyperactive kid with a sweet tooth and a short temper, searching for the hidden cookie you promised. My laptop is gone, of course, torn from its tangle of wires and connectors. So's the mouse, but not the keyboard or hard drive. Too bulky?
There are papers and clothes spilling off the desk and out of the closet, thickly carpeting the floor next to the bed. The bottom rows of both tall white bookcases are partially overturned, Winterson mixing with Tanizaki, and some of my cheap paperbacks have been flung off the small bookcase, newsprint pages slipping out of their covers. Les Misérables, Hocus Pocus, The Oath.
The bed is covered with empty jewelry boxes, brushes and combs, my camera case. But there's my camera! Another moment of mystification: Why leave the nice Pentax, the two extra rolls of black-and-white film? The cop tells me later that's perfectly normal. "They're just taking computers and jewelry these days," she says. "High-end electronics. If you had a flat-screen TV, they mighta taken that." Yet another reason to feel justified for not going digital yet.
Taking the mess in with your eyes is one thing, into your head another. I just keep imagining who the person was, what he was thinking. The ladder he used to climb in my upstairs window was left askew in the yard. Turns out it doesn't even belong to my landlady. The cop said the thief (or thieves) spent 10 minutes or so in the house, a long time by burglary standards.
The next day, the fingerprinting cop tells me about a guy whose life savings were stolen. $20,000 in cash. A Mexican immigrant with no bank account, so despondent about his loss that his young son was the only one who spoke with the police when they came. The father sat in the corner and wept. Then she tells me about a burglar who broke into a couple of apartments, drank a bottle of Manischewitz and a bottle of 150-proof rum, then threw up in two different rooms.
It's the first time I feel lucky; I'll feel that way many times over the next several days. The initial shock is bad, but it fades slowly overnight. I can't start cleaning up before the police take their report, so I go visit some friends. We drink a bottle of wine and joke about how their place and mine look the same now—they're in a packing frenzy, moving cross-country two days later. Another friend comes by later, waiting up with me patiently until the police finally arrive at 12:30 a.m.
I take the next day off to clean up. It's exhausting but suprisingly quick, methodical refolding and reordering, reminding me how much I still have left and how everything has its place in this comfortable me-sized nest. Looking at the empty boxes and remembering when Grandma gave me those earrings . . . which great-aunt found that ring in her antiques shop in Derbyshire . . . what year it was when I shamlessly annexed that great red necklace from Mom.
Here's what they didn't take:
1. My books
2. My albums
3. My photographs
4. My clothes
5. My journals
6. My (first ever) new set of dishes
7. My camera
8. My camping gear
9. My art
10. My optimism
I love California. I love my neighborhood. I put a new lock on the front door for peace of mind. Switched my bank account. Put a fraud alert on my credit.
As soon as I'm done filling out the insurance paperwork, I'll be getting back to business as usual.
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